


long days; slow nights

by maidenstar



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, that's literally it - Freeform, with added fluff and feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:24:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4559331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maidenstar/pseuds/maidenstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Just linger in my arms a little longer, hold me tight, 'cause it's nice (oh, so nice)".</i>
</p><p>Peggy and Angie share a well-deserved, relaxing bath at the end of a long, long week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	long days; slow nights

**Author's Note:**

> i sort of want to be sorry for this shameless many-thousand word work of pointless smut without plot but i can't seem to muster an apology from anywhere at all.
> 
> the two songs i used within the summary and fic can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cVDuWZkJ6hQ) and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cLPP1qSJUdw), they're well worth a listen (especially while reading).
> 
> (as ever, i'd love to hear what you think!)

_'It’s been a long day_ ’.

This, murmured quietly to herself as Peggy gratefully toes off her shoes at the door to Howard’s mansion (while she might think of the place as home by now, she remains acutely aware that - with its overlarge rooms and grandiose décor - the building itself is very much Howard Stark’s).

Once her shoes are arranged neatly on the mat beside the door, lining up next to a pair owned by Angie, Peggy allows herself an indulgent stretch and a high, contented little noise as she rolls her shoulders and tries to dispel some tension.

Peggy has developed something of a habit in this respect. Every day, she arrives home with a sense of grim satisfaction and at least one new set of bruises. She drags herself through the door on stiff legs and she removes her shoes first, before anything else, and then she thinks mournfully to herself: _‘it’s been a long day_ ’. It doesn’t matter whether she arrives home at six PM or six _AM_ , it has always simply ‘been a long day’.

But in this case, it really _had_ been a long day. Or two. Or maybe it was three – she is so tired she can’t even begin to remember how long Thompson had kept them all at the office, working on finding Dottie Underwood before she (and whoever the hell she works for) can wreak any more havoc in the city. They had unearthed a credible lead – as in, really, really credible – and, with Roger Dooley and Ray Krzeminski’s names still ringing in their ears – they’d all wanted to follow it through.

Dottie was like water, though, and she had, ultimately, slipped through their fingers once more.

Frustrated and pricklier than a pot of stinging nettles, Thompson had sent them all home early, instructing them to take the weekend to relax, adding that they had better all bring their A-game on Monday morning, if they didn’t want to be out of a job. 

Things were slightly better at the SSR now, except for when they weren’t which was quite often, given that Peggy upon, apparently, proving herself _worthy_ of the other agents’ time (and boy was that still something she couldn’t say without feeling entirely too scornful) had been given a great deal more responsibility. That is, a great deal more responsibility _on top_ of filing, coffee-making, and lunch runs. Apparently, she was still the only agent capable of reciting the alphabet.  But at least she was actually working cases now.

Still, as she juggles countless taxing tasks, every day now becomes _a long day_ by the time she arrives home.

The house is quiet as she tracks down the hallway, which isn’t entirely surprising given its size in comparison with its number of occupants. It’s also a little chilly, the autumn weather finally fading to winter and Peggy thinks to herself that they’ll soon have to employ Howard’s highly altered heating system. Or perhaps take the safer bet and light a fire in the central living room – the only room, bar the library and the bedroom, that she and Angie habitually inhabit.

The ground floor rooms prove disappointingly empty as Peggy gives them a cursory search, and it is only as she climbs the main staircase that she encounters the faint strains of music filtering – she assumes – from one of the bedrooms.

“Peggy? That you?” Angie’s voice comes from the end of the dim hallway, sounding only faintly concerned that Peggy might, in fact, turn out to be Howard or Jarvis.

“Yes, I finally got sent home. Where are you?” Peggy calls back, stopping at her bedroom to drop her bag beside the dresser, and remove a few pins from her hair. This, she discovers, is where the music is coming from, her gramophone whirring away happily and the door left ajar to allow the voice of Peggy Lee (she wonders idly if this is a deliberate choice) into the rest of the house.

“Bathroom,” Angie answers, sounding as though the very act of answering is costing her a lot of effort. Peggy confirms this to be the case when she finds her, a moment later, beneath a lavender-scented haze of water and soap suds, relaxing in the bath with her eyes loosely closed. A book sits, open, beside the bathtub where it had clearly been dropped, even reading proving to be too much of a commitment in Angie’s current state of indulgence.

The very tops of her thighs just about break the water, her pale skin wet and gleaming in the dim light of the room, and the water swills around them as Angie shifts herself, adjusting her position ever so slightly, still without bothering to open her eyes.

“Tiring day?” Peggy asks, fiddling with a button on her cuff. Angie had started taking shifts in the diner again as soon as it reopened, in spite of Peggy’s insistence that Howard didn’t expect any rent. After all, the whole point of Angie moving in had been to allow her to take time off work to focus on auditions.

 _Well, perhaps that wasn’t the sole reason_ , Peggy reflects as she slips the final button on her shirt open. When the cotton drops to the floor with a slight hiss, Angie finally makes the effort to open one eye, glancing up appraisingly as Peggy’s skirt joins the shirt.

Peggy makes a great show of stooping down to remove her stockings, slowly sliding the thin, delicate silk down one calf, and then the other, discarding them with two gentle kicks. Her slip follows, removed with the same slow deliberation; arms crossed over her front, fingers at the slip’s hem, she pulls it up gradually over her torso, then her head. Partly she enjoys knowing that Angie is watching (both eyes now open and trained on the muscles in Peggy’s abdomen), partly she relishes in the delicious feeling of slow movements after days of non-stop rushing. She feels as though she is removing restraints – her days-old clothes seeming thick and heavy on her skin – and, somehow, the act is no less liberating know that Angie is there, a silent observer.

Eventually bare, Peggy drops a testing foot into the water, finding it delightfully warm, and the rest of her quickly follows, gliding smoothly into the bathtub.

The bathroom matches the rest of the house, in that it conforms perfectly to Howard’s taste for the extravagant. The walls are tiled in squares of such a rich blue, they practically glitter when the late afternoon sun streams through the frosted windows (west-facing, naturally). The floor is an uncharacteristic dark hardwood, though is always almost entirely covered by a large, ostentatiously fluffy cream rug. Peggy thinks it is an impractical indulgence (the fabric takes too long to dry after being soaked by wet feet and soapy suds that drip down legs), but Angie – a child of the Depression who had grown up lacking even the smallest luxury – delights in feeling the softness between her toes. This was perhaps the only reason Peggy had not yet packed the thing up and deposited it within the confines of the attic. 

Perhaps the one redeeming feature of all the lavishness is the bathtub; white enamel with enormous brass taps and matching, finely carved clawed feet – it was plenty big enough for two. For more than two, if they were so inclined. (They weren’t).

(And yes, Howard _had_ checked).

Peggy takes her time getting comfortable, resting her back against the curve of the bath opposite Angie (though avoiding the taps – still hot from the water – proves a slight challenge). Peggy twines their legs together, the water level now rising significantly higher, and lets out an unabashed, contented moan as it laps over her breasts. After three days stuck at her desk, or crammed into the back of one of the SSR’s stuffy cars, or chasing criminals down dingy alleyways, a bath (shared with Angie) felt _sinfully_ good.

“Nice?” Angie asks, the back of one hand cast delicately over her forehead, baby hairs clinging damply to the nape of her neck. Laying like that, with her eyes closed once more, Angie cuts the very image of the star Peggy had every faith she would one day become.

“ _Heavenly_ ”. 

“Can you talk about it?” Angie asks after a warm silence, referring to Peggy’s extended shift at the SSR.

“I can, but I’d rather forget it now that I’m home with you.” 

“That bad, huh?” Angie asks, now skimming her foot slowly up and down the length of Peggy’s left leg.

“Not terrible, but our lack of results is getting rather frustrating to say the least.” 

Peggy feels Angie shift, the water giving a _whoosh_ between them, rippling up and around Peggy’s shoulders. She feels the surge of water soak the hair at the back of her head but is too relaxed to bother moving. Off in the distance, a new song begins, something slow and smooth about dreams coming true.

(‘ _I’m glad I waited for you. I’m glad my heart waited too. That favourite dream of mine has just come true; I’m glad I waited for you’_ ). 

She feels Angie’s fingers, soft and a little wrinkled from the water, graze at her waist, drifting over a sore, bruised spot where a suspect had gotten in a lucky punch. As Angie’s fingers trace the purple marks left behind, she gives a concerned hum. Peggy catches Angie – now sat upright – with a worried expression on her face, her brow furrowed deeply for a moment.

“You should see the guy who did it,” Peggy jokes, which earns a fleeting smile from Angie. Her hands glide up Peggy’s biceps, fingers firm as though she is searching for purchase, before she tilts forward, sending a few little waves over the side of the tub.

For just a moment, Peggy’s mind drifts to the mundane – _that bloody rug_ – but then Angie comes closer, the tips of her fingers now skimming softly along Peggy’s cheek.

“You knock his lights out?” she asks, her eyes fixed firmly on Peggy’s lips, her face still slowly getting closer. 

Peggy nods, swallowing once, all quiet anticipation. “Of course.”

“Good,” Angie whispers, so quietly Peggy barely hears it, before closing the gap between them in a soft, open-mouthed kiss, her lips barely whispering over Peggy’s. Peggy cranes up slightly and steals a firmer kiss, their breaths mingling and their tongues ghosting against each other.

Angie arranges her legs against Peggy’s, eventually dropping her head to Peggy’s shoulder, (thoroughly soaking soaking her hair, although she doesn’t seem to notice) before pressing feather-light kisses all over; her lips at Peggy’s neck and jaw and cheek. She breathes in deeply through her nose as she does, exhaling heavily in a huge, happy sigh.

“How was the diner?” Peggy asks distractedly, scratching her nails impossibly lightly up and down Angie’s spine.

“The diner was the diner.” Which is code for: _it was terrible, let’s not go into it right now_. 

“And your audition yesterday?”

Angie smiles against Peggy’s cheek, nuzzling closer. “You remembered.”

“Course I did,” Peggy replies, arching an eyebrow in question, silently asking why Angie would think she’d ever forget.

“You have so much work, I’m surprised you can keep up with my silly auditions,” Angie adds dismissively.

“They’re not silly,” Peggy replies quickly, as firmly as possible. She was, by now, rather accustomed to helping Angie rehearse her lines and could say, with the utmost confidence, that Angie was truly talented. “Except for that terrible Betty Carver script. That _was_ silly.”

“Say what you really think.”

“It was positively asinine and the fact that they didn’t cast you is a blessing in disguise.” 

“There it is.” Angie is forced to bite back a laugh at the memory of Peggy’s barely-contained indignation at the content of that particular script, and Angie could hardly blame her. She’d heard a lot of the real story now, and it was far more exciting.

“And it’s entirely their loss,” Peggy adds haughtily, tilting her face towards Angie until their noses brush together.

Their lips find each other again, a magnetic attraction of sorts. Angie’s mouth is hot against Peggy’s, her tongue daring and her teeth scraping at Peggy’s bottom lip. Angie kisses in much the same way she does everything; with a bold, well-placed enthusiasm, with reckless, carefree abandon. Angie smiles into kisses the way she smiles first thing in the morning, when she wakes to see Peggy in the bed next to her, both of them sleep-hazy and in mortal need of a first cup of coffee. Angie enters into kisses like she knows just how good she can be.

(She _is_ good and she _does_ know it).

Peggy shifts in the water, Angie giving a frustrated murmur when Peggy breaks the kiss briefly to turn to her side, angling her body into Angie’s and wrapping her arms around Angie’s back. 

Angie immediately tilts her head for another kiss, lips greedy as her hands drift to Peggy’s chest, cupping Peggy’s breasts and kneading gently, fingers plucking at her nipples, pinching just enough to make Peggy gasp against Angie’s lips, walking that delicious line between pleasure and pain. 

One of Angie’s hand trails lower, down to Peggy’s navel, rubbing patterns over the plane of her stomach, fingers dancing down to the sensitive area atop Peggy’s thighs. 

Peggy squirms slightly, laughing, as Angie deliberately veers between tickling and teasing, her fingers occasionally drifting close to Peggy’s centre, but always drawing back at the last moment. When Angie goes to bracket their legs together, the motion causes little waves to swish around them. They both shiver – the water now losing the last of its heat.

“Time to get out,” Angie whispers, sitting up quickly and shifting to her knees. “C’mon,” she holds out both hands to Peggy, who takes them. “I have an idea you’re just gonna _love_ ,” she says in a way that suggests that Peggy will anything but love it.

Angie all but pulls them both out the tub, briefly wrapping a soft and unnaturally large towel around the two of them, before surprising Peggy and pulling her down towards the floor, towards the –

“Oh G- _od_ ,” the cadence of Peggy’s voice slips from frustrated ( _not on this sodding rug, Angie_ ) to weak and slightly breathless as Angie’s mouth finds Peggy’s right breast, sucking and biting down slightly ( _okay then, the rug it is_ ). Angie urges Peggy onto her back, straddling her hips, and even in Peggy’s current state she still has a flicker of irritation at the back of her mind as the rug grows damp beneath her. Angie must sense it, because she sits back on her knees, flushed and beautiful, smirking in a way that is almost too self-satisfied.

Peggy goes to protest, and again Angie must be anticipating it because she waits until the moment before Peggy speaks to roll her hips, and Peggy’s complaint shifts to a low groan as her back arches demandingly, her own hips lifting to meet Angie.

Angie’s turns an intense, burning gaze on Peggy and it does not waver as she drags two fingers down from the dip in Peggy’s collarbone, between her breasts, and agonisingly slowly all the way down Peggy’s torso. It is a strange sensation, having contact only where Angie’s hips rock gently, and where her nails scrape so firmly along Peggy’s skin that they leave tiny bumps of gooseflesh in their wake. It is bizarrely erotic, and it would have left Peggy’s legs weak were she actually trying to stand.

Angie does not stop in her descent, but finally slips her hand between Peggy’s legs, running the pads of two fingers firmly along Peggy’s opening, rubbing languorously up and down, occasionally pressing a little further into Peggy, into the slick heat between her thighs. Then suddenly, before Peggy has time to register what is happening, Angie is gone, her fingers leaving Peggy feeling uncomfortably empty, her weight suddenly drawn away from Peggy’s hips.

A tiny whimper breaks its way between Peggy’s lips. “ _Tease_ ”.

“You love it.”

“Are you willing to risk it?” 

Angie drops forward, bracing herself on her hands, one planted either side of Peggy’s arms, and the motion causes Angie’s breasts to sway distractingly, so that Peggy almost forgets herself, almost sits up to take a nipple in her mouth, to drag her tongue across it. But she has a point to prove, so she does nothing.

She’s well aware that Angie doesn’t have the patience to front this out much longer, and sure enough Angie breaks into a light, easy smile, and begins working her way down Peggy’s body, stopping to leave hot, wet kisses wherever she feels like, occasionally dragging her tongue over Peggy’s skin. 

It is cool enough in the room that Peggy’s nipples pebble in the air, but the rest of her feels as though it is burning up under Angie’s attentions and, by the time Angie has worked herself low enough to press Peggy’s legs apart with a hand on either knee, an insistent throbbing has set a nearly unbearable rhythm between Peggy’s thighs. 

Then, quick as anything, Angie’s mouth is on her, sucking gently at her clit, her tongue swirling in circular motions, eager and giving. Peggy hisses, a harsh whistle of air between her teeth, her hand drifting to her own breast, squeezing down firmly. Soon, Angie’s hand joins her tongue, as she presses first one, then two fingers between Peggy’s folds, easing slowly into her, curling her fingers and stroking deep within.

Peggy shifts her body slightly, feels the illicit way Angie’s shoulders sit beneath her thighs, digging gently into her arse.

Angie lavishes Peggy with attention, her tongue first dabbing at Peggy’s clit, then lapping in long, confident strokes. She is relentless, drawing Peggy to the edge and yet never bringing her to her release, repeating this over and over until Peggy’s breath comes in deep, shuddering sighs. She had known literal torture before – she’s a spy, after all - but Angie is a completely different story. She has mastered a form of sweet, unbearable torment that has Peggy lifting her hips greedily, crying out in tiny, disjointed whimpers; the best her body can manage as she falls apart under Angie’s touch. 

Angie sits back for a moment to catch her breath, her fingers still pumping in and out of Peggy, her thumb taking the place of her tongue, moving in circles around Peggy’s clit. Angie’s hair is now a complete mess, her eyes glinting mischievously beneath a nest of displaced curls (though Peggy assumes she doesn’t look much better herself). Peggy’s breath hitches slightly when she sees the way Angie’s lips glisten wetly, her chin damp. When she catches Peggy staring – slack-jawed, with hooded, heavy eyes – Angie’s tongue darts out, slowly and deliberately licking her lips clean. Peggy lets out a low grown.

This does nothing to stop the way it tastes, strong and heady and salty, when Angie drags herself forward to kiss Peggy on the lips, her tongue pressing into Peggy’s mouth now, showing Peggy the taste of herself.

“ _Angie_.”

“Yes?” she asks innocently, as though she has no idea what she is doing and, boy, Peggy is going to make her suffer for this one night very soon. A taste of her own medicine perhaps. But right now, Peggy has more pressing matters to attend to, for which she is willing to swallow (some) of her pride. 

“ _Please, darling_.” 

“Well, since you asked so nicely. How can I say no?” Angie whispers, still touching their lips together, before resuming her place between Peggy’s legs. She grips onto Peggy’s hips, and nestles her head amongst Peggy’s thighs, licking up her slit with just the very tip of her tongue before suddenly, so suddenly Peggy lets out a strangled cry, sucking Peggy’s clit into her mouth. Peggy’s breath leaves her in short, ragged pants until finally Angie brings her to completion. With her tongue gently coaxing as Peggy comes roughly, Angie draws the orgasm out as long as possible, delighting in the feeling of Peggy pulsing against her mouth.

Peggy arches up as she comes, bent at the waist, pressing her weight into the heels of her hands, braced against the rug on either side of her. Peggy comes watching Angie’s head move between the taught muscles of Peggy’s own thighs, one hand disappearing between their bodies; she comes wondering where she ends and Angie begins.

She slumps back as the feeling ebbs, her chest heaving erratically, feeling utterly boneless.

“Jesus _Christ_.”

“Nope, just Angie.” It is Angie’s favourite joke, and she has cause to use it more or less every time they have sex, but it still makes them laugh together whenever she tells it. 

For just a moment, Peggy, sated and happy, allows her eyes to drift shut, a warm smile on her face. That moment extends out in the weightless space just before slumber and she finds she must jerk herself awake as she realises she is falling asleep.

She can’t have drifted for long, however, because Angie is still crouched between her legs. She wipes her slick fingers carelessly on own her hip with a tilted smile.

“Most people offer to return the favour, you know,” Angie says, raising her eyebrow playfully. “They don’t look for all the world as though they’re about to doze off”. 

“ _Most_ people?” Peggy asks pointedly, now fighting against a more treacherous smile. 

“Yes, so I’m informed. Reliably,” Angie shoots back with a solemn nod. She bites her lip, mock-serious as she attempts to look as though she is contemplating the issue seriously.

They’ve both been with others, of course, propriety be damned – and they’ve been open on the subject. But that is not what either is referring to here, not in that sense anyway. It is a source of great amusement between them that they find themselves as graduates (or perhaps ‘drop-outs’ would be more apt a word) of the Miriam Fry ‘ _haven for proper young ladies_’, and remain as far from ‘proper’ as can be. Both already rather well-educated in matters _far_ from the id and the ego, a spy and an aspiring actress, living together (in the least acceptable sense possible), in the second smallest mansion owned by Howard Stark – hopeless womaniser extraordinaire. Besides, no _proper young lady_ would have ever known to do all the things Angie just had. (Not to mention the things Peggy was about to do). It would all surely be enough to give Miriam Fry an aneurism. 

They catch each other’s eye and, instantly knowing what the other is thinking about, Peggy lets out an ungraceful snort. A moment later as Angie dips her head in an attempt to banish thoughts of their old landlady (it is hardly the moment, after all), Peggy is hit by a sudden, strangely-timed wave of affection. Never once in her life – not before Steve and certainly not after him – did she think it would ever be this easy. She’d been taught as a child that love was supposed to be patient and kind, but being with Angie had taught Peggy that it was, above all, simple. Simple in the most beautiful, buoyant sense possible. 

Peggy raises a hand, crooks a finger in a beckoning, _come hither_ motion and Angie complies, once again straddling Peggy’s body. They share a kiss, and then two, then three and four, the taste of each other mingling on their tongues. Peggy’s hands begin their own journey across Angie’s body, brushing firmly over the smooth dip of Angie’s waist, in the spot where it curves to meet her hips. Then, with a hand splayed over Angie’s belly, Peggy urges her upwards, so that Angie kneels above her.

Peggy arranges her, pulls her further forward and brings her closer, with sure hands gripping firmly at the back of Angie’s thighs. As Angie she shifts above her, Peggy finds herself thinking silently on how much she loves Angie’s legs, how she adores the play of muscles beneath the smooth skin; lean but strong. Angie had dancers’ legs from the lessons her parents had scrimped and saved to send her to. Peggy’s hands run affectionately up and down, drifting up and over the swell of Angie’s arse, squeezing lightly and digging her nails into the soft skin ever so slightly.

Angie groans, seemingly at the contrasting sensations, when Peggy places a singular, chaste kiss to the inside of Angie’s knee, nuzzling against her leg. Slowly, Peggy kisses her way upwards, urging Angie closer when necessary, her face eventually so close to Angie’s centre that she can feel the the thatch of soft, damp curls. Peggy can feel as much as hear the way Angie’s breath begins to come in heavy pants, delights in the way it hitches when she places a quick, sharp bite on the sensitive skin of Angie’s inner thigh, before dragging her tongue over the same spot. 

“ _Peg!_ ” Angie’s voice is high and urgent, and it is all the encouragement Peggy needs. She slides her fingers teasingly along Angie’s centre, and feels her body twitch in response. Angie gives a demanding moan, thick and raspy and stuck in the back of her throat in a way that sends a jolt through Peggy. After a few more frustrating, feather-light touches Peggy sinks two fingers into Angie, making her legs clench briefly on either side of Peggy’s head.

She cranes up slightly to dart her tongue out, lapping at Angie’s clit gently in a few small, short touches, before switching to slow, lazy strokes, taking her time and savouring the sound of Angie’s tiny whimpers. She feels Angie shift, bracing her hands against the wall behind them, and Peggy, knowing from past experience, pre-emptively anchors a hand on Angie’s hip. Her other hand keeps its rhythm between Angie’s thighs, touching her in deep, soft strokes that match the movements of Peggy’s tongue. She draws Angie slowly, _maddeningly_ , to completion, her legs shaking around Peggy’s head, Peggy’s name a litany on Angie’s lips.

“Oh my _God_ Peg.”

Pleasure slowly subsiding, Angie lifts one leg smoothly over Peggy before slumping heavily down beside her, still breathless. They lay like that together for a moment, bodies pressed together, Peggy’s cheek flushed and Angie’s chest rising and falling quickly, both of them damp with sweat and smelling of sex in a way that makes Peggy think that they ought to take another bath. 

“God I love you,” Angie sighs eventually, rolling to her side and kissing Peggy. It is breathless and contented and slightly clumsy, their noses bumping together. It is completely perfect. 

Peggy strokes a tender hand along Angie’s cheek, drawing back slightly to kiss the tip of her nose. She feels the last of her energy slide away as they lay there together. Eventually Angie rises slowly, as though her body protests every movement (it probably does), and pulls Peggy, now half-asleep, up with her. She slots herself behind Peggy, both arms wrapped around Peggy’s waist.

“C’mon,” Angie whispers. She drops a kiss to the back of Peggy’s neck before nudging her gently with her hips. “Bed.”

Haltingly, Peggy complies, the two of them drifting through the house like autumn leaves. When they are both finally curled beneath the blankets of the bed in Angie’s room (which is technically more _their_ room by now), Angie removes a stray pin or two from Peggy’s hair, scattering them carelessly on her nightstand.

In the end, Peggy falls asleep with the warmth of Angie’s body pressed behind her, drifting into unconsciousness to the feel of Angie’s face pressing into her hair and breathing her in, to the comfort of Angie’s arm over her waist, drawing them closer. Angie’s hand slips unintentionally over Peggy’s, and she links their fingers together for a moment, giving one tiny squeeze.

Love, Peggy knows, is patient and kind _and_ easy. It is tender and forgiving; it is Angie’s hand in hers as they both succumb to the heavy weight of slumber. It is sweet kisses and lingering looks and, right now, it is the slow nights they spend together, in the shelter of each other, after many long, long days. 


End file.
